The Mysteries of Udolpho

Valancourt waited impatiently for the conclusion of the sentence,

but the words died on her lips. Her eyes, however, reflected all the

emotions of her heart. Valancourt passed, in an instant, from the

impatience of despair, to that of joy and tenderness. 'O Emily!' he

exclaimed, 'my own Emily--teach me to sustain this moment! Let me seal

it as the most sacred of my life!'

He pressed her hand to his lips, it was cold and trembling; and, raising

her eyes, he saw the paleness of her countenance. Tears came to her

relief, and Valancourt watched in anxious silence over her. In a few

moments, she recovered herself, and smiling faintly through her tears,

said, 'Can you excuse this weakness? My spirits have not yet, I believe,

recovered from the shock they lately received.'

'I cannot excuse myself,' said Valancourt, 'but I will forbear to renew

the subject, which may have contributed to agitate them, now that I can

leave you with the sweet certainty of possessing your esteem.'

Then, forgetting his resolution, he again spoke of himself. 'You know

not,' said he, 'the many anxious hours I have passed near you lately,

when you believed me, if indeed you honoured me with a thought, far

away. I have wandered, near the chateau, in the still hours of the

night, when no eye could observe me. It was delightful to know I was so

near you, and there was something particularly soothing in the thought,

that I watched round your habitation, while you slept. These grounds are

not entirely new to me. Once I ventured within the fence, and spent one

of the happiest, and yet most melancholy hours of my life in walking

under what I believed to be your window.'

Emily enquired how long Valancourt had been in the neighbourhood.

'Several days,' he replied. 'It was my design to avail myself of the

permission M. St. Aubert had given me. I scarcely know how to account

for it; but, though I anxiously wished to do this, my resolution always

failed, when the moment approached, and I constantly deferred my visit.

I lodged in a village at some distance, and wandered with my dogs, among

the scenes of this charming country, wishing continually to meet you,

yet not daring to visit you.'

Having thus continued to converse, without perceiving the flight of

time, Valancourt, at length, seemed to recollect himself. 'I must go,'

said he mournfully, 'but it is with the hope of seeing you again, of

being permitted to pay my respects to your family; let me hear this hope

confirmed by your voice.' 'My family will be happy to see any friend

of my dear father,' said Emily. Valancourt kissed her hand, and still

lingered, unable to depart, while Emily sat silently, with her eyes bent

on the ground; and Valancourt, as he gazed on her, considered that it

would soon be impossible for him to recall, even to his memory, the

exact resemblance of the beautiful countenance he then beheld; at this

moment an hasty footstep approached from behind the plane-tree, and,

turning her eyes, Emily saw Madame Cheron. She felt a blush steal upon

her cheek, and her frame trembled with the emotion of her mind; but she

instantly rose to meet her visitor. 'So, niece!' said Madame Cheron,

casting a look of surprise and enquiry on Valancourt, 'so niece, how

do you do? But I need not ask, your looks tell me you have already

recovered your loss.'